


And Then There Were Two

by Caepio



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Πλούταρχος | Parallel Lives - Plutarch
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dubious Consent, Grieving, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Sort Of, Threesome - M/M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25257163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: After Philippi, Antony and Lucilius struggle to come to terms with Brutus' death and each other.
Relationships: Lucilius/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger, Lucilius/Mark Antony, Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger, Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger/Lucilius
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. 1

It wasn’t the same, afterward.

Not that Lucilius had thought it could be.

He’d had plenty of time to think, through all those long nights, the months leading up to the end. 

He knew Brutus could see it in his eyes, the calculation he couldn’t stop, the grief already slipping in the door.

It might have offended a different man, it would have offended Cassius, to see someone he trusted, someone who cared for him, already losing hope in his survival. 

Brutus never said anything. He would almost smile, slinging his arm around Lucilius’ shoulders when there was no one to see, solid, vibrant, alive. More at ease than Lucilius had ever seen him, like he’d found some kind of secret in the weight bearing down on him, the days running out. And still, he did everything as it should be done, and no one could say he wasn’t fighting; if not for his life, for what he loved.

Always what, never _who_. Brutus would bleed himself dry for his cause, never for them. Never for Lucilius. Never for Antony.

It was as foolish to think that he might as it was to imagine he’d protect himself for them. Even with the three of them together it was always clear that this was an exception, not the rule, and there were things that Brutus belonged to more than them.

There’d been some nights, back _before_ , when it would be just Antony and Lucilius, two soldiers out of place in the spare beauty of Brutus’ house. They’d talk. Never much, never very eloquently. They were both there for _him_. Finding something in each other was a bonus, and it was pleasant, in the middle of the night (when Brutus would get up from the twisted sheets, evading Antony’s quick reach, returning to his work) to not be alone with the personae staring at you from all sides, the little household gods glowing in their alcove, and the immense intricacy of the family tree displayed on the walls. 

Brutus was alien, at times, but still much loved.

Antony was familiar, steadying, for both of them. His plain spoken jibes, blunt humor making him a kind of harbor. Here was someone uncomplicated, who wanted what he wanted, and didn’t think about costs and value. 

Back then, Lucilius had thought - If we’re both here, if we’re both here for _him_ , what could happen?

In the end Antony was, in his way, alien as well. 

Lucilius wasn’t there, the last time Antony and Brutus met. He’d hovered, uncertain near the tent, where he could hear low voices but nothing of the conversation, but the words had faltered and died out, without any invitation. 

It reminded Lucilius that there’d been a time before him. A time when it was just Antony and Brutus. He couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t picture it anymore than he could accept that Brutus was gone and he and Antony remained. It was just them now. Standing over Brutus’ body, winter cold setting in. 

Lucilius wasn’t good at blame. He’d never had much time for resentment. Whatever anyone else might do, whatever dead men without tongues, without hands, might say, the choice was clear. 

He’d take his grief and stick by Antony, because Brutus loved him. Because he knew Antony loved Brutus, in his way. Because that had always been him. Loyal to a fault. Self-effacing. There, whatever may come. 

They never talked about it, afterward. There wasn’t anything to say.

They stood by the funeral pyre together, with their own memories.

And then they left. Together. 

Antony never traveled without him, after that, like a lucky charm, or a memento mori. Lucilius’ former comrades looked at him askance, from their new places behind the young Caesar, but Lucilius went to Egypt all the same. Two was better than nothing. There was some comfort in looking at Antony and thinking - You knew him.

We were all together once.

You remember. 


	2. Chapter 2

There were some similarities, between Brutus and Lucilius. Little things, superficial things, the kind of things that at a distance made them look like a matched set. 

A certain pride. A straight backed way of standing. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Unsmiling mouths unless you could make them laugh. 

Close enough to play a few tricks, if that had been the kind of people they were. But even at a distance, even in the dark, Antony could pick them out. 

Lucilius didn’t realize it at first, and then it became unavoidable - Antony no longer wanted to make the distinction. 

He’d always been a drunk, an addict, familiar with hallucinations and seeing double, but that had never been the _point_ before.

It was worse in Egypt, worse when Antony had so little purpose, so much freedom. 

Lucilius found him one day, drunk at his desk in the middle of the day. He was unconscious, head resting on his crossed arms, eyes closed. 

Lucilius eased around him, picking up the cups and bottles before they could be knocked to the floor. He tried, carefully, so carefully to ease a heap of papers out from under him before they creased.

Antony’s eyelids fluttered. He took a breath, pushed himself up a little, looking at Lucilius. His eyes were red. 

“Come on.” Lucilius said quietly, “She’s looking for you.”

Antony grabbed Lucilius’ wrist and hauled him closer, half over the desk. He pressed his forehead against Lucilius’ shoulder, heavy and unbalanced. Lucilius felt his lips against his collar bone, his neck.

There’d been a time for this once.  
They’d been happy.  
_Even Brutus had been happy_.

When was the last time either of them had reached for each other? When had it ever been just _them?_ It shouldn’t work without him. Always the three of them, never just Antony and Lucilius.

Antony pulled away and pressed his lips to Lucilius’ palm, breath warm, intoxicated. Lucilius wrapped his fingers through his hair, pulling Antony’s head up, checking his eyes -

“Brutus…” Antony murmured, more desperate than surprised, gaze unsteady, and Lucilius jerked back, stumbling.

They stared at each other for a moment, one anguished, one horrified, over the spilled wine and crumpled papers. 

“No-” Lucilius couldn’t get his voice to work. “ _No._ ” If only. “Antony, you have to- _He’s not here_.”

Antony reached forward and grabbed Lucilius’ wrist, keeping him from leaving. He stared at his fingers wrapped around Lucilius’ arm. 

His grip tightened, and he stood, pulling Lucilius closer. He pressed their foreheads together. His eyes were closed. He ran his hands down Lucilius’ arms, grip too hard, digging into the muscle.

Lucilius started to speak, he took in a breath but Antony stopped him, kissing him. Lucilius could taste salt water on his lips. Antony pressed his mouth to his jaw, his neck, wrapping his arms around Lucilius’ waist, feeling the unbroken line of ribs and muscle, the fabric of his clothes dry, not bloodstained. 

Again, he murmured Brutus’ name, muffled against Lucilius’ shoulder. 

Lucilius couldn’t find a voice to speak.

If he could pretend even for a moment- If he could take this on like he’d taken on so many things for Brutus… What if it could be true? What if _Brutus_ was the one to survive? What if they’d swapped places for real, not just a clever, momentary ruse, and _he_ was here now. Weary, determined, sure even when he doubted (because there’s no room for hesitation _ever_ ) but fantastic, burning like Venus at dawn, just for them.

Antony lifted him up, unsteady, still drunk, and Lucilius wrapped his legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, eyes shut tight, wondering if this was how it had been when it was just the two of them, wondering if Brutus would hate that Antony gave this to anyone else, wondering if it mattered, now. 

There was a narrow bed in the corner of the office, military neat, and they tumbled into it, inelegant. Antony pulled his clothes off, tangled, and yanked up Lucilius’ tunic. 

The heat, of Antony’s skin and the desert air around them, and the weight of Antony on top of him was suffocating, but still Lucilius said nothing. He stayed silent, even as Antony bit at his neck, violent like he expected, like he _wanted_ retaliation. Silent, even as Antony flipped him over, half sobbing a name that wasn’t his against the nape of Lucilius’ neck, grip bruising on his hips. 

He wished it _wasn’t_ him. He wished it was true.

He wished he knew what Brutus would do. 

-

It was nearly dark, when Antony finally got up. He stared at Lucilius for a moment, gaze sobering, his expression closing off, turning cold. 

He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, sitting at the edge of the bed. “When did you- What time is it?”

Lucilius didn’t move. “I don’t know. It was noon when I-”

“Yeah.” Antony breathed out heavily, “I’m sorry.” He muttered, without much feeling. He dropped his head, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Sorry sorry _sorry_ -” He laughed, “Fucking sorry excuse for a man-” He breathed in and it came out like a sob.

Lucilius sat up, struggling for some kind of composure, “Sir-”

“Don’t.” Sharp and suddenly authoritative the word broke from Antony. 

A pause, and then Lucilius started to get up, looking for his clothes. “I’m going to find some water.”

“ _Don’t._ ” Antony dug his fingers into his scalp. “Just _don’t._ Don’t go and… _don't speak._ ” He forced his head up slightly, “ _I'm trying._ Just… Just _sit there_. And _don’t say anything_.”

If there was one glaring difference between Lucilius and Brutus, it was the voice.

Lucilius settled again, back to the wall, ill at ease.

Antony lay back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t fall asleep. It was warm (always too warm) but every now and then Lucilius would see a tremor run through him.

The shadows moved across the floor, the last of the light going.

Lucilius picked at the edge of the faded wool blanket under him. His mouth was dry, his body aching. “He didn’t blame you.” He said quietly, when he could see them lighting lamps across the way out the window.

Antony looked up, weary, “Of course he fucking blamed me, it’s my fault.”

“He made a choice too.”

“ _You_ blame me, don’t you?”

“If he didn’t, why should-”

Antony rolled over, glaring at Lucilius, “Stop being such a loyal dog and tell me what you think- You’re your own person in there aren't you, or should I treat you like his shadow?”

Lucilius didn’t say anything. _You already do._

Antony laughed, cruel and agonized, “He’d have punched me in the face if I said that to him.”

“ _I'm not him._ ”

“No. You’re not.” 

“I can’t-” Lucilius swallowed, struggling to keep his voice even, “You need to pull yourself together.”

(A memory - 

3 in the morning and Antony had stumbled in to Brutus’ bedroom.

The lamps were lit.

Brutus on the windowsill reading, Lucilius half asleep.

Antony had flowers in his hair. Mud on his clothes, or maybe it was blood.

_One of these days…_ Brutus had said. _You won’t last like that._ But he’d kissed Antony anyway, smiling, then half shoved him away, serious again. _Pull yourself together._ )

“You have responsibilities now.” Lucilius said, still sitting there, as Antony dropped his head to the bed. “He’d-” He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t say it. “He’d hate what you’re like, now.”

“Then he shouldn’t have fucking killed himself, _should he?_ He doesn’t get a say.” 

“Why are you still looking for him then? _He’s not here._ ” 

Antony pushed himself up, Lucilius cornered against the wall, “I told you to shut up.”

Silence, for a long moment.

Lucilius looked away, nails digging into his palms. “Even if I do… It’s not the same, _is it?_ ” That sounded like something Brutus would say, sharp, provoking- It tasted like ash in his mouth. He swallowed hard, running a hand across his face. “This- Look, this is a mistake… We can’t- I’m not him. _I’m not him._ He’s not here. You killed him, and-.”

“ _I didn’t._ ” Antony bit out, as if saying it was proof enough, “Is that what you really think? Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you protect him?”

“You know what I did- You know I tried.”

Racing across the plains, rain in the distance, the light going. He could hear the thunder of hooves behind him and knew he couldn’t outpace them long enough, knew that somewhere Brutus was going to make a decision he couldn’t stop, couldn’t prevent, and he pushed himself harder, urged the horse faster, like it could change something, like his sacrifice could prevent Brutus’s instead of enabling it.

“Someone has to take the blame-” Antony said, too fast, too angry, “Someone has to-”

“ _I miss him too._ ” 

Antony stopped. He wasn’t breathing. 

“He’d know what to say to you.” Lucilius said, “He’d make you-”

“What? You said he’d hate me now-“

“I didn’t-”

“Do _you_ think I’m failing? Do you think I can’t fix this?”

Lucilius didn’t say anything, and Antony laughed, and kept laughing. He threw himself back onto the bed, shaking. “At least I’m not as stupid as you are- At least _I know_ why I keep you around. _Why are you still here?_ ” 

Like a punch to the gut. But Lucilius had known, hadn't he? He must’ve known.

“This isn’t what he’d want.” Lucilius said finally.

“How do you know?”

“I saw the way he was with you.”

Antony grinned, savage, “He was always _nicer_ when you were around.”

“Really?”

“Do you know what he said to me, when we were young?” Antony stared up at Lucilius, feverish, “He told me that he didn't expect anything from me. That _no one_ did. If he thought I was worth anything, worth enough to be a _threat_ , he wouldn’t have gone home with me.” 

“I don’t-” Lucilius stopped. Some inveterate, long standing reticence to speculate when he didn’t _know_ stopping him. He breathed in, fingers clenched in the blankets, and then he forced himself up, dropping his feet to the floor and standing straight, “Look,” he said quietly, firmly, staring down at Antony, “I’m here because I want to be. I’m here because I think he cared. _I know he did_. Even if I'm wrong… I'd rather serve someone who cared enough to love him once, whatever happened in the end, who made sure he was treated honorably, than someone who wanted him thrown to the dogs.” And then, quieter, “I’ll serve you. Whatever path you choose. But I’m not him. I can’t be him. I can’t fix you.”

“Neither could he.” 

Silence, for a long moment. Lucilius looked away, unable to bear Antony’s gaze. And then someone knocked on the door, urgent. Lucilius startled, scrambling for the rest of his clothes. 

Antony rolled over, not meeting Lucilius’ eyes as he sat up. “You can go, Lucilius.” He said, weariness leaching into his voice, “You should go.”

Lucilius got his belt buckled, straightened his tunic. He hesitated, the knocking reverberating, insistent. “Sir, I-”

“How about not,” Antony cut him off, "If it’s all the same… Let’s just _not._ ” 

“I’ll be here if-”

“Stop _hammering_ and just come in already-” Antony bellowed towards the door.

There was an abrupt silence, then the door clicked open. Lucilius let himself out, slipping past the terrified looking slave peering into the darkened room. “The queen is searching for you sir… She ordered me to-”

Lucilius walked out of earshot. He went out of the palace, down towards the wharf, still noisy and crowded.

He found a place to sit on an empty dock, watching the lights in the harbor. His body ached. He was still thirsty. And for a moment, with the peculiar forgetfulness of time and distance, he wondered if it had felt this awful the day that Brutus died. 

_What do you think? Who do you blame? You’re your own person, aren’t you?_

Lucilius remembered - right before everything fell apart, when Caesar was still breathing and Antony could still tumble through the door at any hour of the night - Brutus had asked him: “Do you think he’s a good man?” 

He didn't need to specify who. If they ever talked about anyone else, it was Antony.

They were lying in bed, the lamps still lit and going strong, casting warm shadows across the walls, sharpening the strong angles of Brutus’ face. 

“Are you not sure?” Lucilius had asked.

Brutus was silent for a time, crossing his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling, “I’m not sure our definitions are the same.”

“That must be true of everyone.”

“Maybe.” He’d rolled over, blowing out the nearest lamp, and then, like it was a reminder for himself as much as a statement, “But that shouldn’t change what you think is right.” 

Lucilius blew out the other lamps, and nudged over closer to Brutus, resting his head on his shoulder, hearing his heartbeat through his chest. “It’s just physics then.” He said quietly. “A calculation. Whatever the answer, you know what you’ll do.”

Brutus had laughed, wrapping his arm around Lucilius’ bare shoulders, easy, warm, and familiar. “What goes up…” he’d murmured in the dark. 

_What do you think? Who do you blame?_

The wharf was growing quiet, the waves rushing against the shore. 

Brutus had known, Lucilius thought. He’d known every step of the way. And he’d still done what he’d believed in, what he’d _wanted_ , knowing it would all fall down.


End file.
